An act of audacity that still resounds to this day, Radiohead’s Kid A is an album that sounds more prescient with every passing trend. Controversial at the time and still contentious to this day, the disc was a shot across the bow of rockers everywhere, the most legitimate assault on the primacy of the guitar in rock music since the invention of the synthesizer. Polarizing and puzzling fans of their previous release, the guitar-heavy OK Computer, the band’s willingness to shift their focus to the electronic and ambient music that had been bubbling through the underground of European pop music was a true revolutionary statement, the kind of a gamble that said, like it or not, they were going to make the music they wanted. And, more than anything they’ve done, it was the moment that confirmed their status as the world’s greatest rock band, a true watershed moment that proved they had the creative range and innovative edge to join the ranks of the Beatles, the Stones and Pink Floyd. The point is clear. Mediocre bands make the same album over and over; great bands reinvent themselves.

Across the Atlantic, by virtue of their steady evolution and ability to avoid breaking up, Wilco is that band. Though they haven’t had quite the right combination of commercial success and creative ambition to give them an undisputed claim on Best American Band status, from the roots rock opus of 1996’s Being There to the classic rock revisionism of 2004’s A Ghost is Born, no American act has done more to broaden what constitutes popular music than Jeff Tweedy and his constantly shifting lineup. Largely, they’ve done that through a process of continually and astutely reinventing themselves, bravely wandering away from their leading role in the alternative country movement to explore new wave pop and experimental rock. But how many times can a band reinvent itself? Don’t even the most inventive musicians simply run out of ideas, eventually?

Unfortunately, from the sound of Sky Blue Sky, the answer for Wilco is
an unequivocal yes. Where their foundational classic rock template has
served as the starting point for nearly everything they’ve done, this
is the first time they haven’t had much to add to it. To that extent,
it’s their least innovative and least interesting release since their
1995 bar-rock debut A.M., and anyone hoping that the band would push
further into the experimentation of their previous three releases will
be sorely disappointed. In short, it’s the sound of a great band
shrugging and admitting that they’re now going to explore the nuances
of what we already knew they could do.

Arguably the most talented lineup Wilco has ever taken into the studio,
with prodigiously gifted avant-jazz guitarist Nels Cline and
multi-instrumentalist Pat Sansone having joined since 2004, it’s all
the more puzzling that the band sounds so tame and bored. Gone are any
traces of the synthesizers and drum machines of their critically-lauded
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and the guitar freak-outs of A Ghost is Born are
limited to a precious few eruptions. For certain, they are remarkably
adept at twisting the rustic charm of the Band around Dylan-esque
confessionals, but we’ve come to expect more from them than simple
homage. Worse yet, this band doesn’t sound like they’re having much
fun, either.

Much of that is probably by design, as Tweedy spends much of the album
ruminating over personal shortcomings and an imminently crumbling
relationship. “Maybe the sun will shine today/the clouds will blow
away/maybe I won’t be so afraid,” he sings unconvincingly on homespun
album opener “Either Way,” and it sets the tone for an album where he
never quite reaches a comfortable resolution of those feelings. As
such, many of the songs take place in drab settings – sitting on
couches, laying in bed, mowing the lawn – with Tweedy left to his
thoughts, alone and sullen.

Musically, the band sounds tentative and confused, relying on stock
riffs instead of putting their distinct fingerprint on the album’s 12
low-key arrangements. Track after track gets bogged down in the
mid-tempo blahs, from the drably proggy two-guitar attack of “Possibly
Germany” to the darkly slurring stomp comprised of spongy electric
piano and mewing guitars in “Shake It Off,” a listless misfire that
never quite takes shape. Far better are the soulful piano flourishes
and heartfelt vocals of “Side With the Seeds” and the jangly folk-rock
guitars and malted harmonies of “You Are My Face,” a track that
explodes in flurry of drum rolls and crackling guitar leads. Still,
such moments are relatively rare, and the album keeps you waiting for
the musical climax that never arrives.

That’s not to say that the album doesn’t exude a certain understated
charm, as Tweedy has rarely sounded as broken and apologetic as he does
on the stripped-down balladry of “Please Be Patient with Me,” with
finger-picked acoustic guitars and subtle layers of atmosphere fitting
the song’s fragile sentiment. Even better is “Hate It Here,” a track
built around a minor chord piano hook, sprightly electric piano fills
and jagged guitar lines that lead to a bridge that sounds as if it was
lifted straight from “Let It Be.” With Ringo-styled drum rolls and
multi-tracked harmonies repeating the song’s titular refrain, it’s
arguably the album’s only transcendent moment.

By the end, Tweedy tries to turn a corner but trips over a trio of
songs whose forced optimism becomes more cynical than anything on the
album’s first half. “The more I think about it/the more I know it’s
true …/honey, I think you’re just right,” he sings over the jaunty
piano figure of “Walken,” an otherwise silly romp with giddy slide
guitar and Southern-fried twin lead guitars. The genuinely affecting
“What Light” follows, presenting Tweedy at his most nakedly vulnerable,
offering an awkward anthem for self-reliance and personal resolve that
is almost too sentimental for the song’s humble acoustic guitar strum
and gorgeous pedal steel flourishes. “If you feel like singing a
song/and you want other people to sing along/just sing what you
feel/don’t let anyone say it’s wrong,” he sings to himself, leading up
to the album’s most memorable chorus. By the album closing “On and On
and On” those good feelings have largely dissipated, however, giving
way to Tweedy’s frightfully desperate pleas and promises. “Please don’t
cry/we’ll just have to die/don’t deny what’s inside,” he sings
ominously, adding a tragic edge to his unsteady reassurances to himself
that everything will work out.

All in all, given the rich lyrical content and emotional depth, it’s a
shame that Tweedy and his bandmates couldn’t come up with a more
interesting set of arrangements for his penetrating character study.
For sure, the album isn’t without its exceptional moments, but the high
points here would be filler on their best releases, and the band sounds
more like they’re rehearsing their chops in the studio than sitting
down to the business of making another rock epic. For a rough draft or
a collection of outtakes, that would be suitable enough, but for
America’s greatest rock band, it’s nothing short of a resounding
failure.

Sound
Given the sincerity of their classic rock homage, the production is
suitably warm and dry, with the vocals high in the mix and the
instruments presented with little separation. Sounding very live in the
studio and with relatively few obvious overdubs, the production matches
the small room feel of the album, as well suited for reverb-drenched
electric pianos as it is for carefully finger-picked acoustic guitars.
If you listen closely you can almost convince yourself that you hear
the sound of vinyl spinning.